


ten thousand flashing screens

by fated_addiction



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:31:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fated_addiction/pseuds/fated_addiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Friends and Romans, really. Pick one.</i> Relena and slices of nature. The universe still wants to be a big deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ten thousand flashing screens

There is grease on her nose.

“I don’t know where she is,” Hilde finally greets them, shoving the rag into the back of her jeans.

Her eyes dart between Duo and Noin. The corners of her mouth twitch. Then she leans against the counter, propping her chin up with one hand. Her hair falls into her eyes.

“But if I did,” she offers.

“You’d tell us?” Duo supplies.

“Nope,” she says cheerfully. A mechanic comes out and tosses her a clipboard. She signs quickly, looking up again. “But the effort’s appreciated.”

She meets Duo’s gaze this way this way. His eyes are bright. She tastes the peace offering, silly as it is. The news is a dull murmur behind her. It’s all the same as it is, has been for the past week or two.

_Minister shot. Minister recovering._

L2 is L2, she thinks. But a lot of things have changed.

 

 

 

Hilde calls her. The process is stupid.

There is laughter in her friend’s voice. “He’ll find you,” she tells Relena. “The fact that it was Duo and Noin in my shop means that they’re trying to cushion some sort of stupid thing that Heero or, well, your brother are planning. Or doing. Or are on their way to do.”

Relena sighs. “Probably.”

The scar in her leg is a little longer than four, maybe five inches. It pinks just over her knee. Her nail catches into the skin. The stitches are tight enough anyway.

They do this once a day anyway. If not Hilde, it’s Cathy; if not either or, it’s Une with a polite suggestion of returning to the _fold_ and to doctors that can watch her progress. It’s the same phone too. She is supposed to let it ring three times, then not answer, and wait finally for a second round of calls before answering on the fourth.

At least the house is nice, she thinks.

“Relena?”

“Sorry,” she answers. “Still a little sleepy.” She moves to the open doors. It’s a little house on the beach, an alcove of the sorts. She keeps the sliding doors open in the morning and drifts towards the water.

“How are you?” her friend asks.

“I was shot,” she says dryly. “In a ball gown; not the first or last time, probably. My leg hates me today.”

“I’ll be able to come down in a few days.” Hilde’s laugh is warm. Relena answers back with a smile, soft. She listens half-heartedly as her friend talks about the beach then, and her shop on the L2 colony, some new hires and how stupid some part shops are sometimes.

Her fingers brush over her leg. She remembers pretty clearly as it is.

 

 

 

Relena takes her tea in the afternoon.

This walked her right into war, walked her out of being Queen and straight in a Minister, over arms of men, over coos of admiration and adoration and phases of unadulterated hate. She gets it all. It makes her tired. She’s just not a teenager anymore.

The beach house was her idea though.

She was thinking about it before the event, off-handedly mentioning to assistant that she was going to take a weekend. The assistant is new, _was_ new and had smiled back, flushed with confusion.

“The blue looks lovely on you,” she said too.

“It’s all right,” she replied. Strands of hair looped over her shoulders. “I know it washes me out.”

The assistant swallowed. “I didn’t – ”

“It’s a joke,” Relena told her gently, and already, the sounds of arrivals marched into the manor, heavy-handed. At this point, there were four guards outside her rooms and on the desk, three treaties lived, all lined in a row. Ducks, she might have thought. Just like _ducks_.

Still there were important things here. Relena is going to be twenty-five in a few days. The beach is going to wait. There are plenty of people waiting for her. She had thought about declaring more than just a vacation; sick days worry the wrong people.

“You’ll be fine,” she said to her assistant too. This was absent. The smaller woman helped her with a pair of earrings. The murmurs open into her window – whether it was the Preventers assigned to her or the party guests, she couldn’t tell.

But a few things are always the same:

Her ears will always know the sound of a barrel rolling into place.

 

 

 

“Tell Cathy not to worry,” she warns Hilde into the phone. It fits into her neck and the other woman laughs. “Seriously,” she says. “If they went to you first, they’ll go to her next and Cathy –”

“Has claws,” Hilde grins. What isn’t said: they both know someone’s there already.

The videophone sits blank on a desk. She never uses it. Une calls her old fashion from time to time.

“I just want a few days.”

Hilde snorts. “You deserve more than a few days.”

“Days are days,” she says and then sits, on a love seat by the doors. She curls her legs into herself and drops her chin over her leg and knee and scar. They brought her here to recover. Then she called the parents of the young girl who had been working for her.

She gets older and older without trying. Her eyes close.

“Duo and Noin, huh?” she murmurs.

“Yeah.” There’s a pause. Hilde sounds wistful. “Two strangers, really.”

“Are you okay?”

There’s another pause. There’s a yell this time around, something about the right parts and Hilde is groaning. Relena has never been to Hilde’s shop, but they’ve been to Cathy’s school. Cathy is a teacher, a brilliant one; they both give a lot of money.

“I guess,” her friend finally murmurs. Paper rustles and she listens to a door shut. “I don’t know. I’m not a kid anymore. Or pretending to be a kid anymore, whatever – if anything, it was business and I get business.”

“It smells like wishful thinking,” she mutters.

The other woman laughs. “Terribly planned wishful thinking.” They both laugh at this. Then Hilde is serious, even if it’s funny to say out loud like this. “You know they’re probably on their way as it is.”

Relena looks out her window. The sea catches against the glass. The sun is bright and sharp. She moves her hand and presses it against the glass. Her fingers are flat.

“Probably,” she agrees. Her neck is starting to ache. 

She hears Hilde’s name over the phone. Her friend sighs loudly. A chair rolls back and hits something – a wall, Hilde’s desk, she can’t remember what’s there as it is.

“Gotta jet, lady friend. And you should rest,” Hilde tells her, and it’s really nothing new. The circles of conversation; _you should rest Relena_ and then of course her own, _I know I know I know_.

Hilde says something about calling her later. She won’t. It gives Relena time, if she wants it.

She doesn’t even know if she does.

 

 

 

Being in love is cautious after sixteen, and seventeen, and eighteen to twenty. Heero was never just it for Relena, but he was constant when he needed to be and Relena was more than aware that she grew up to live a life, a life that will never quite be her own. She does not dream about this anymore.

She makes it to the water after her call with Hilde, and breakfast and the market. She spreads a blanket into the sand and puts down a bag of oranges, sitting carefully so that she can stretch out her leg.

The scar is flushed now. The heat is starting to crawl against it, sneak under the hem of her sundress and spread. She doesn’t touch it; reaching for an orange, she starts to peel it open.

Down the beach, a dog barks. The fisherman are out.

“You know,” she starts. Her teeth sink into an orange slice. “There is a reason that Lady Une vets all her Preventers personally. There is also a reason why there’s such a thing as Human Resources, Heero.”

There is a grunt behind her. “How long?”

“The second Hilde called,” she answers. “I had my suspicions. Then I figured you were here already.” She’s tempted to say, “I’m just not surprised anymore.” Instead, it’s more like: “At least, I know I’m not that rusty anyway.”

She cranes her head back. Her hair falls against her shoulders and over the sundress. When she squints, she makes out his shadow. Then there are his hands in his pockets.

“Also Hilde called,” she says lazily.

Heero’s mouth turns. He takes a step forward and then another. He hovers over her and she pops another orange slice into her mouth.

“You were shot,” he says.

“I’m not dead.”

“No,” he agrees. She rips off a slice, but doesn’t eat it. “It was sloppy,” he tells her. “And lazy, if anything.”

“They all can’t be you.”

The corners of his mouth catch. Then he sits with her. It’s haphazard and stiff, a strange mix of motions that makes her want to laugh.

She figured, she thinks. He’s still predictable.

“Were you at the hospital?” she asks, and turns her leg. The scar peeks out from under her dress. She reaches for another orange.

“Yes,” he says. “We all were.”

Silk and volume, she remembers. This is what the dressmaker had said. It all cinched at her hips too hard. She never likes not being able to move. There is something that feels like panic in her throat when that happens; the dress had crawled just under her throat.

She doesn’t remember them at the hospital. Then again, she hasn’t seen any of the former pilots in their Preventers’ work. Or they don’t let her; it’s much of the same thing. There is Quatre, but same circles can have strangers too. 

“It was a stupid dress,” she says, off-handedly.

She hands him a slice and he takes it. His fingers back off against her knuckles and he throws it into his mouth.

“Are you hiding?”

Relena laughs. “What?”

“Are you hiding?” he asks, and it’s not a stupid question, but it’s not relevant either. She hears a second question underneath it though and tilts her head to the side, finally meeting his gaze.

It’s been a long time since she’s actually looked at Heero. There’s no gun. There’s no barrel. She wonders if her brother is nearby too.

She takes sum of her relationships this way – it’s easy and it’s all circular as it is. She could find some kind of humor in the fact that neither of them can just come out and talk to her, that they’ll hover over her in hospitals, the occasion functions and anniversaries, meetings and what have you, but neither her brother or Heero seem to have the knack for just telling her.

Still, looking at Heero, really looking at Heero is uncomfortable and revealing as it always has been. His eyes seem to widen, too bright, too steady and then she watches as he licks away some of the orange from his mouth.

“No.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I’ve never had the patience for any of that.” Then carefully, she pushes. “You know that.”

“Hn,” he agrees.

“So,” she pushes. “Then it should not come to any surprise that I’m going to ask you this – why are you here, Heero?”

Her dress is starting to stick to her legs and her knees. It’s just one orange, she thinks off-handedly. Her hand stretches to reach for one more and then stops, midway.

But Heero doesn’t answer.

 

 

 

It’s stupid, but she makes dinner. Heero doesn’t leave. She thinks about her brother but she doesn’t ask that question yet, or doesn’t want to – she really can’t decide if she wants to care.

Dinner is dinner though, simple with fish from the market trip yesterday, vegetables and too much rice. She feels him watch her move around the kitchen. She limps. She doesn’t. She places too much weight on her free leg. Sometimes she even breathes.

“You cook,” he throws out there. It could be out of pity.

“Yeah,” she says. Her mouth turns. “Who knew?”

“I didn’t,” he says seriously.

Relena laughs, shaking her head. “Idiot.” She doesn’t press and puts a plate in front of him, turning to the kitchen to get her own.

They don’t sit at the table. She has one. There is a fresh vase of flowers. Cathy sent it through Une and the others, the only others who swept through and made sure the house was clean. She has had her suspicions for years of who it is; the toss up is between Chang and Barton, if only because Cathy is Cathy and it should make some kind of sense.

But the table is still settled in the middle of the room. Her tea from the morning sits by the flowers, empty and damp at the bottom. She takes a seat by the window and forgets wine in the kitchen too.

“Good?” she asks, and Heero grunts.

They eat in silence. Or she eats in silence. There are no televisions in the house. She keeps a radio in the bedroom. She feels Heero staring at her; their forks hit their plates in polite conversation.

There is a new scar around his mouth, she notices. His hair doesn’t fall over his eyes. She wants to be wistful, but that takes too much energy and she doesn’t have that much to give.

“Next time send a card,” she says.

He snorts. “Okay.”

She points her fork at him. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” he tells her.

“Do you?”

“Relena.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“It’s a relevant question,” she says. “And you showed up.”

“It’s a _vague_ question,” he mutters.

She rolls her eyes. “Except you know exactly what I mean.” Her fingers push her hair out of her eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she murmurs. “I assume my brother’s going to show up at some point?”

He frowns. “I don’t know.”

“Liar,” she accuses dryly.

Heero shrugs, almost as if to say it doesn’t matter. Part of her knows that he’s right; Milliardo will show when he wants to, as most people do in her life. There’s no bitterness attached to this. She wonders if there’s ever been, but there’s not much time to think of it as it is.

“Eat your food,” she says then, absently even. Pushing herself up to stand, she catches herself against the wall. It’s habit, she thinks. It’s not. Her mind starts to swim.

Then the pain in her leg is sharp. Her plate falls.

Heero is at her side when she blinks. His grip around her arm is tight.

“I’m fine.”

He grunts, dragging her into his side. The pain in her leg grows. She hisses between her teeth. Her vision clears. Her foot shifts forward and rice hits the side.

Her head drops. Heero’s fingers are in her hair.

“You’re not fine,” he murmurs. “You need to stay off your leg.”

“You need to stop being so condescending,” she mutters, and there’s a sound, in her hair, his mouth lazily just over her hair. She thinks he might’ve laughed. She is never too sure.

“It’s not just a scar,” he says. “And –”

His fingers pull over her leg. She feels his nails scrape lightly over the scar. Then she remembers the stitches.

“I’ve made a mess,” she says.

“Relena.”

Her hand turns over his arm. She settles her weight against her other leg, leaning into him. Her face flushes with embarrassment, a low groan escaping her mouth.

“I can’t even go away on vacation without someone around to check on me,” she mutters.

“You were shot,” he says flatly. “This isn’t a vacation.”

“That’s beside the point.” Her mouth purses and she shifts, trying to draw back. His grip tightens. “I’m not stupid, Heero. I’m just tired.”

If she had the presence of mind to look at him, she would, she thinks, or maybe, if anything, she might say a little further. She’d ask him if she’s still running ageless around in his head. But she was shot, just like he said, just like _she_ said, and the low, tired moan sliding out of her mouth sounds just like her.

She remembers calling the parents of her assistant. “You’ll pull your stitches,” he tells her, and that’s it.

 

 

 

She gets to bed. It’s all relative the _how_ ; there is Heero and he’s here. That, she thinks, is as far as it needs to go.

Relena doesn’t sleep.

 

 

 

There are so many bodies now.

Her hospital gown smacked just over her knees. She wore Cathy’s coat as the other woman dragged her, or half-dragged her, away from the morgue and the body of her young assistant.

“My leg hurts,” she said plainly.

Cathy tucked her hair behind her ear. “Relena,” she said. Somewhere in the room there was Trowa too. Barton, now. Relena remembered that they are all adults a lot. She was going to forget about Trowa in the room though. That can’t be helped.

“Relena,” Cathy had said though. Her fingers lingered at the spot behind her ear too. “Relena, you were shot.”

“I was shot,” she repeated, but that’s not really the point, she really wanted to say too.

The point was simple to Relena. In fact, the point _is_ simple. 

There are so many bodies now. She could, _had_ filled countries and colonies with them. Bodies had to work. Bodies needed to work. Bodies were shapes and types – men, women, children, all girls and boys and both. She thought it odd that she was thinking like this because she hadn’t thought about things like this in a very long time.

Then again there was a very dead girl on a metal slab. What would she say to the girl’s parents? There was no wondering. Relena is an old friend of the drill. She was a very bright girl with an even brighter future and, of course, I am so, so, so very sorry.

Relena had looked away.

“Cathy,” she said quietly, seriously even. “I’m really quite tired.”

And that was the end of that too.

 

 

 

Heero makes pancakes for breakfast.

She does not pay attention to this. Instead, awake and dragging to the kitchen, she misses her tea and goes straight to the note leaning against Cathy’s vase of flowers.

“I missed him,” she guesses.

Heero grunts. He also doesn’t answer.

Mars is for her brother. Mars does not answer why Noin went with Duo to see Hilde on L2, or why she is receiving nothing more than a letter against a bunch of flowers that hold more weight than any thoughts of her brother. She stops at the table.

But she doesn’t touch it. She decides not to. Heero appears at her side, a plate of pancakes in his hand. He shoves it into hers.

“Your leg?”

“Still attached,” she says tiredly. Her fingers curl around the rim of the plate. “Did you make tea?”

“No,” he says. “Coffee.”

“I don’t drink coffee anymore,” she says.

He grunts again. Then, awkwardly, his hand catches at her elbow. “Why?” The question makes her want to laugh. “You used to drink coffee when you were in boarding school.”

Her nose wrinkles. “I’ve never slept well. Tea’s better for the nerves.”

“Nerves?”

“Yes,” she says dryly. “I have nerves, Heero.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She rolls her eyes.

She puts her pancakes down. Then she shifts and slides herself onto the counter. Her hands cup her plate again. The fork sinks into one of her pancakes and she takes a bite.

“Good.”

He nods. His eyes steady over her.

“I’m not going to read it,” she says, and it doesn’t mean anything. She could read it later. Maybe he knows what’s in it. The truth is somewhere in that she’s never been close to her brother and neither of them seems to understand a place where they can be close. She doesn’t know if she can do it either; there is very little of her left.

Heero is careful. He remains awkward too. “He was only here for a few minutes,” he says. His own fork pushes around his pancake pieces. “I told him you were asleep.”

“Okay,” she murmurs. She takes another bite and swallows. “Thank you,” she says. It could hold itself to both.

“I still want to kill him,” he says casually. Relena laughs. She doesn’t try and check if he’s serious. Maybe she should. But her voice is soft and her laughter tastes sweet and dry – she’s forgotten syrup.

Of course you do, she doesn’t say.

 

 

 

The problem is the beach. The problem is always the beach. He is still here and she isn’t surprised; he just decides to come on a walk with her.

Relena is not in a mood to be transparent.

It’s sand between her toes anyway and she finally lets herself have that moment: sand between _her_ toes. It should feel like some great leisure, but instead it settles and stays as it is, dull and inopportune and something that makes her feel a million years old.

“I’m not a child anymore,” she says finally. 

The water crawls to her feet. It hits her ankles and wets her dress. Heero shoves his hands into his pockets.

“No, you never were,” he says back, and it’s more just to placate her. Whatever, she thinks. It’s nothing new.

But it’s always patience that walks her right into these things, much like tea, and Heero and her have this unintentional luck when it comes to beaches, or guns, or simply the conversation that in reality, she has absolutely no desire to have.

“No.” She meets his gaze. Her fingers force her hair behind her ear. There is a breeze now and it catches over her skin. “I was a child,” she says. “I had no business imposing anything on a country, let alone the entire world and faction of colonies. That’s the truth.”

Her hair flies into her face. She thinks about her brother’s letter, still sitting on the table with the flowers.

“I also,” she reasons. “I also should hate a lot of people.”

He’s quiet. She doesn’t expect anything. There isn’t anything he could really say. She wishes it were as simple as it should be: she is older, wiser, and more than just _tired_.

Her lips purse too and then she laughs. “Unfortunately,” she says, rather lightly. “I tend to see through things I start.”

“You didn’t start it though.”

“In theory.” She waves her hand. “And I got involved.”

He shrugs. “In theory then. But no one asked you what you wanted,” he returns. She looks up at him, surprised. But Heero looks into the water, hands still tucked into his pants. “No one asked what I wanted,” he says quietly too, thoughtfully even. “It’s the whole circle of things.”

“Ever the poet,” she quips.

He snorts. She catches his mouth twitching.

“This is the longest we’ve talked,” he points out.

“Well,” she says dryly. “There’s _that_ ,” she’s pointed, and her mouth even catches just a little. It’s ridiculous, all of the sudden, and she feels like laughing and laughing and _laughing_. 

“I know,” he says quietly.

He reaches out. His hand touches her arm, then curls to cup her elbow. He doesn’t drag her forward. Instead he turns into her, then leans over her and she doesn’t really have the patience for this.

Her hand turns into his chest.

She doesn’t mean it. At least, she thinks she doesn’t. But she’s watching it, intently, as her fingers curl in his shirt and she starts to squeeze her fingers into his shirt. Her knuckles are white.

“You can’t just show up like this,” she tells him.

He says nothing.

“It’s not fair.” She licks her lips. “You and my brother and the rest of them – _stop_ it. I own up to my responsibilities. But sometimes? Sometimes I just want to tell you to go the hell away. Sometimes I just don’t want to show up to those events, even though I’m, like, fifty feet away from a ballroom, in a goddamn dress. Sometimes I just don’t want to have to make a call to parents because I …”

Her mouth turns again. She tries to relax her hand.

“The worst part, really, are those moments where I start thinking that I hope they won’t miss. That’s when I come here, you see. To remind myself of a lot of things.”

She looks up at him. Her eyes are soft.

“Suffice to say, there are parts of me that you just can’t have.”

It happens then, that Heero gives her a mysterious little smile. It’s like she’s not supposed to see it, but she _does_ , she catches him just as it starts, pushing at the corners of his mouth just like that. She can feel the heat rush to her cheeks and this is stupid, so stupid, she thinks, that it’s back to that again when all she wants to do is sleep.

She wants to sleep. 

His fingers touch her cheek. “I know,” he murmurs. Then they touch her mouth, skirting over her lip. “That’s fair,” he says too.

“You’re awful,” she mumbles.

“I know,” he’s serious.

“You would say that.”

He laughs. At least, she thinks he laughs. The sound is too low to be anything else. His fingers fall away from her mouth. He’s leaning in again though, his lips touching hers. It’s brisk and dry and she opens her mouth too, tasting a little of the beach, the air, and she feels a little sharp.

But she’s kissing him, and it’s nothing like it’s supposed to be, or really, how once upon time she wanted to be. She’s careful, she could be coy if she was in the mood – but it’s Heero and his mouth is warm, and she’s a bit slick, her tongue pressing into his mouth and against his. He makes a sound again and it tastes hot and she pushes herself slowly, up onto her toes, to be closer. She feels a little closer.

“I was shot,” she says against his mouth. It’s a sigh.

She feels his fingers against the back of her neck. “I know,” he says. And then finally, pressing back all over again. There’s a pause and his mouth hovers back over hers. “Happy birthday,” he says.

Her hand relaxes like this.

 

 

 

Hilde shows up. It’s the last night; somewhere in there, it’s an unspoken promise about bringing her home to Cathy and to _work_ and to her life. Duo’s right by her side and it’s weird, of course it’s weird. This isn’t L2 and there aren’t repairs, and she’s not some sassy kid that’s just really great with her hands.

Relena greets her first. At the door, there is her sundress and the long scar on her knee.

“Hi.”

Hilde grins widely. “There’s something in the air here, huh.” Duo stands next to her and looks at both women curiously. “And rested,” she says to her friend, glancing her over. “Rested looks good on you.”

“Rested is good,” Relena agrees.

Then it’s simple, like it’s been these last couple of years, between _minister shot_ and Relena’s late _it’s fine_ calls to her (or her calls first because, really let’s face it – Hilde just worries more).

But Hilde throws her arms around her and Relena’s head is buried into the crook of her neck. Her fingers check into Relena’s hair and she can feel her body sigh, sag into her. Some days they are just too girls and it’s really not for anyone to get. There’s Duo’s gaze too, but that’s later for her, that’s always later.

“I’m fine,” Relena murmurs, and there’s something in her voice, something heavier, something wiser, something that Hilde’s always admired and feared. It’s what makes Relena _Relena_ and the rest world stretch too hard to catch up.

Duo touches her arm, but she isn’t paying attention.

Hilde really couldn’t tell you who she sees first, Heero or the flowers.

It’s a sensible thing.


End file.
